What the students lost by in points that night, they gained in perspective: They got to see a glimmer of what life is like each day for their classmate and friend Sam Bridgman.

Bridgman, a junior finance major, has a condition called Friedreich's ataxia, a rare, degenerative neuro-muscular disorder that causes progressive loss of coordination and muscle strength.

About 550 people attended the event, which raised more than $7,000 toward research for Friedreich's ataxia and offered Bridgman the opportunity to educate his classmates about his condition.

It also gave Bridgman's classmates on the campus of about 3,810 students the chance to show him what he means to them.

The tossing and catching of a tennis ball helps keep Sam Bridgman's muscle coordination sharp. Sam and Bradford Scott, director of athletic performance, are continually attempting to best their record for most catches without a drop. Bridgman, a junior finance major, has a condition called Friedreich's ataxia, a rare, degenerative neuro-muscular disorder that causes progressive loss of coordination and muscle strength. Steven Gibbons/Special to the Oregonian

"It's almost like you want to stop what you're doing just to make sure you say hi to him just because he's got that big grin on his face," Sperry says. "It's just impossible to ignore."

They've adapted his duties according to the progression of his disease, but Bridgman still shows up at practice every day to grab an interview or snap photos to post on Facebook.

On game days, Bridgman is in the dugout with the rest of the team. Occasionally, he'll stand up for brief periods -- sitting for a long time can be uncomfortable -- and a team member will gently lift him back into his chair.

The baseball players have become some of Bridgman's closest friends.

J.R. Bunda is a pitcher and Bridgman's former roommate.

What he loves the most about his friend is his ability to make negative energy evaporate. When Bunda feels low about the way he's been pitching, he can trust that Bridgman will be waiting in the dugout to grin at him and slap him a high-five.

"He kind of slows me down and just makes me say to myself, 'You know what? It's all right.' That's his gift that he gives to everyone, is that spark."

Bunda recalls one of his first memories of Bridgman. Walking behind him on the way to class, he saw Bridgman's erratic walking style and at first thought he was drunk.

View full sizeSteven Gibbons/Special to The OregonianThe workout room has a special place in Bridgman's heart, because it's where he met his girlfriend of two years, Molly Billingham.

Bridgman's friends and girlfriend laugh at the memory, remembering the way Bridgman stubbornly fought off the wheelchair for as long as he could, until his mother and some friends had to physically put him in one. ("Wheelchair intervention," Billingham says.)

Bunda is a Hawaii native, and the summer after their freshman year, he invited Bridgman and another friend to visit his family back home.

Bridgman put on a life vest and loved experiencing the feel of the ocean. Riding a wheelchair on the sand posed a bit of a challenge, however.

"The sand is probably not the best thing for a wheelchair," he says, "so these guys would carry me out of the sand. That's pretty cool that they'd do that for me."

Sperry is proud of the way the baseball team embraces Bridgman.

"It hasn't taken me circling the wagons saying, 'Hey, I really want you to take care of this kid,'" he says. "They do it because that's who they are and because of who Sam is, and that they love him. That's one of the things that, when I leave the ballpark each day, really warms my heart."

When he's not in class or on the baseball field, Bridgman probably can be found in the weight room at Chiles Center. (The room also has a special place in his heart: It's where he first met Billingham, his girlfriend of two years.)

Some of the college's athletic trainers have arranged their schedules to work with Bridgman -- completely voluntarily -- to help as much as they can.

"Somehow we've got to keep trying to get his legs to work," says Bradford Scott, director of athletic performance, who works with Bridgman about three days a week.

A typical session might involve some initial core work and back extensions in the weight room, followed by a trip upstairs to the upper mezzanine.

They walk upstairs together, with Scott's arm wrapped around Bridgman as Bridgman grips the railing with his left hand, the words "Seek a miracle/impossible is nothing," tattooed in the shape of a baseball on his wrist.

They approach the "Prowler," a sledlike device with weights on each side.

Pushing the Prowler, his forearms bulging with effort, is one of the few times Bridgman's face isn't crinkled into his trademark contagious grin.

"'Cause I don't get to walk anymore, it gives me the ability to feel like I'm walking," Bridgman says. "When I'm done with the Prowler, I feel like my legs are alive again."

Brief daily sessions with assistant athletic trainer Amber Eubanks help Bridgman retain his muscle memory. Like Scott, she hadn't heard of Friedreich's ataxia, so she researched the condition to find exercises that might help.

"It all goes back to muscle memory," she says. "If you learn a language and stop speaking it for a while, you forget. That's what we're trying to do, is to get his muscles to speak Spanish."

Watching Bridgman certainly inspires Taylor Mossman, a shooting guard on the basketball team who participated in SamJam 2011.

"I'm known as a gym rat," he says. "I try to work my hardest, but knowing him, I almost feel selfish when I don't use my full potential. It makes me want to work even harder."

That kind of perspective is why the school's coaches value Bridgman's presence.

"For what he thinks we've done for him, he's done more for us," says Eric Reveno, head men's basketball coach, echoing a common sentiment among the trainers and coaches.

For their part, Bridgman's parents are awed and grateful for the outpouring of support their son has received.

His mother recalls attending a fundraising dinner for the baseball team during his freshman year.

Bridgman had the wheelchair by then but was still stubbornly refusing to use it, although walking had become dangerous. At one point, he stood up and six guys immediately surrounded him, their arms protectively encircling his waist.

"Anytime he stood up, there were people around him," she says, her voice breaking. "At that moment, I knew he was going to be OK."